


Freebird

by chemiclord



Category: The Uniques (Webcomic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26195869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemiclord/pseuds/chemiclord
Summary: Myna and Audible often felt they weren't being properly used serving as glorified customs agents for the FBI.  They probably should have been careful what they wished for.
Kudos: 1





	Freebird

**Author's Note:**

> I tend to write two different types of fanfiction.
> 
> The first is "slice of life" pieces that could fit into the established narrative with established characters, either exploring something the original work never really had the time to explore, or something additional that I'd think would compliment the characters or setting. The first piece I posted, "The Sage Family Legacy" is a perfect example of this.
> 
> The second type of fanfiction I write is something that might START with established characters and settings, but quickly veers off into its own thing; with completely unique characters, places, and events... an unofficial spin-off of sorts that runs considerably longer than one-off and has it's own contained narrative. This work is an example of that second type.

The target was late. That wasn't good. Diego Morales was known for his timeliness, almost obsessively so. If he hadn't arrived, then that meant either someone close to him was dead, or he had been tipped off that the feds were watching. Neither were particularly good omens for the mission, or the stability of the region.

El Paso had been heating up for the last two years, and not because of global warming. While the Federal Government had been focused on the chaos in New York and reining in the “Unique Problem,” it meant more conventional means of chaos were starting to slip into the country more easily. Like Diego Morales and his Latin Army, gun runners with operations centered in Columbia. In the past, he had been using Mexican runners as go betweens for his operations in the United States, but starting last month he apparently decided to take a more personal approach.

The Mexican cartels accused the Latin Army of trying to wedge them out and not giving them good trade on the drugs they were offering for his guns. Morales countered by accusing the cartels of stealing off the top and providing poor quality drugs. It had become a potential powder keg, one that the FBI had assigned Myna to get to the bottom of.

Which was what brought the Special Agent to this location, a dive of a diner almost right on the Rio Grande built on the remains of Old Loop 375, a highway that had run along the border until 1985. Both sides had decided on it due to being on “neutral ground,” with easy access that could circumvent border checkpoints if done at just the right time.

Had Morales been caught by border patrol, however, Myna would have heard something.

The Muertos were here at a large double table on the other side of the diner, as well as two represenatives from other Mexican cartels that Myna couldn't recall the name of. They were growing even more visibly impatient by the Latin Army's tardiness as Myna was.

The front door of the diner dinged, and for a brief moment Myna thought that mercy had shined upon him. But it wasn't to be, the newest customer looked nothing like Diego. Far too pale skinned, for one. Far too tall, for another. Light brown hair instead of black. Late 40's or early 50s, a bit too old for the brash, younger Diego. Dressed far too raggedly than Diego would ever allow himself to be. A weather beaten brown leather coat, and a single black glove covering his left hand. _Definitely_ not the style for a Texas July.

Myna leaned back and sighed as the customer walked past, the older man giving him a suspiciously knowing smile that the agent waved off. The gang representatives watched warily as well until the customer stopped at the counter, his muted voice quietly ordering something.

“Corona and tamales, if you're curious,” a voice in his ear informed him. “Nothing like any of Diego's henchmen would order. Too low brow.”

That was Myna's partner, Audial. A Unique, though with a much more limited skill set than Myna's; hyper focus and hyper sensitive hearing. Give him a target and ten seconds, as long as he has an uninterrupted line of sound, Audial can hear and relay a whispered conversation from damn near a mile away.

Or in this case, one listening device planted in the ceiling, masked conspicuously as an emergency sprinkler.

Not that Myna needed the confirmation. Ten more minutes, and he was calling it off. As it was, Myna was rather astonished the gangs weren't already suspicious that he was still around. There was only so long he could nurse a Diet Coke before it looked suspicious.

Myna was about ready to leave after five, at least... until the latest customer dropped down in the bucket seat across from him in the booth, dropping a syrofoam container presumably filled with tamales in a plastic bag and a glass bottle of bear on the table between them.

“Did I make you wait long?” he asked, drawing out his vowels in a way that suggested he hadn't spoken English long, or at least was out of practice.

At the same time, the visitor subtly slipped a torn piece of yellow paper across the table, gesturing for Myna to flip it over. Careful not to show suspicion in front of the gang representatives across the way, he did so.

_Diego Morales isn't coming. You're wasting your time._

The stranger coughed, and looked around the diner animatedly. “I don't feel like sitting around. Wanna take a walk?”

Every one of Myna's instincts were screaming this was a bad idea. But right now, even a bad idea felt like a better one than sitting in this stuffy diner waiting for someone who probably wasn't going to show.

He finally smiled and said, “Yeah, I finished eating waiting for you anyway. Let's go.”

Myna could hear Audial's protests in his earpiece. “Myna? Where are you going? If you leave the building, I might not be able to listen in.”

Oh well. Sucked to be him.

Once Myna felt they were suitably clear from any eavesdroppers, he asked, “Alright... who are you and how the hell do you know Morales isn't coming?”

“I need you to deliver a message to someone.”

It seemed the visitor was going to aggressively avoid the question, and Myna decided to play along for the moment. “Which 'someone' are you referring to?”

“Assistant Director Kevin Michaels.”

That was a relatively obscure name that one wouldn't just pick trolling the FBI website, suggesting that whoever this was had at least _some_ inside info. “Not my direct supervisor, but I know who you're talking about.”

“I know you do,” the stranger said with annoyance. “That's why I'm approaching _you_ , and not some other random alphabet stooge.”

“Knowing who exactly this message is from would go far to ensuring the AD gets it.”

“The less you know on _that_ score for now, the better off you are. By the time we're done here, I'm confident you'll want to pass it along.”

This fellow sounded like CIA. Myna didn't like CIA. The only thing you could count on spooks doing was getting you and everyone around you in trouble.

Fortunately for this stranger, Myna felt he could use a little bit of trouble right now, if for a change of pace. “Alright, you've got my attention. What's this all about?”

The stranger took a left onto Old Loop 375, to a section that had been converted to a scenic boardwalk overlooking the Rio Grande, though Myna wondered just how scenic it could possibly be considering the noise from the traffic of _New_ Loop 375 on the raised freeway roughly a football field's distance to the north.

That was most assuredly the point, as the background noise would make listening in rather difficult, unless you were someone like Audial, following in a completely obvious fashion with his right hand over his right ear, and his left slightly turned in their direction.

The stranger followed Myna's eyes, and stated, “I know your partner is there. What you're about to hear isn't for your ears only. Don't worry about him scaring me off.”

Why didn't that sound as comforting as it should have been?

“As for what this is all about,” the stranger continued, “ _that's_ going to take a bit of lead-in. How familiar are you with the name Hope Sage?”

Myna rolled his eyes. “As familiar as everyone else in the goddamn country. The last psion. Hell, half the media follows her like vultures. I'm fairly certain you can turn on National News Nightly and find out what she had for breakfast this morning.”

Myna was leaving out a great deal, most of it scorn. He had been effectively forced to register, and join a federal agency due to that public registration, then get relegated to shitty jobs like this because no one even in the FBI wanted to trust a “dangerous unique”... all the while Hope Sage could gather together what amounted to a mercenary band, and get pass after pass simply because of her parentage, even as she did more damage than a unique like Myna ever possibly could.

Bitch.

“She's been getting a lot more attention than that, if you know where to listen,” the stranger explained. “Turns out the last living psion's got a _lot_ of countries and governments nervous.”

“Are you talking about China accusing the United States of being responsible for the psionic attack that killed every single one of them?” Myna asked. “That's old news.”

“That's _not_ what I'm talking about. Psions were, and are, very useful people to have. To the point where a _lot_ of countries are seeing the opportunity to get in that game, if you will.”

“How?” Myna asked. “How do you get in a game where there's only one person who can play?”

“The black market is offering quite a few options. Some are offering money for Sage's abduction, but those are pretty easily snuffed out. No, what is catching my interest are the big money being offered up for tissue samples. And I'm talking _big_. Three million dollars for a strand of hair. Ten million for a blood sample. Fifteen for cells from her stomach lining. Then the _really_ big one, one hundred and ten million for every viable egg cell.”

Myna groaned. “You're kidding me. Someone is trying to clone her and/or use her to artificially inseminate a surrogate.”

“That sort of money isn't being thrown about by random industrialists with delusions of power.”

Myna reached the obvious conclusion, “That's money being offered with foreign government backing.”

“Very good. Now, I've been able to trace _some_ of that cash flow to here in the United States, but getting specific people isn't easy through black market channels. I'd need a bit more brute force to crack that.”

“Which is why you want me to give this message to AD Michaels. Was this sort of thing one of his old specialties?”

“Not really, but he's one of the few people with authority that I know is clean. He'll know me and he'll know how best to proceed.”

Myna sighed. If this was all true, it was _definitely_ worth forwarding. “Well, fine. I'll call him tonight during my report in.”

The stranger shook his head. “Deliver it in person as soon as possible. Telephone involves way too much risk.”

“In case you haven't noticed, we're kinda already on a case. I dunno what you understand about the FBI, but we can't just walk away from cases arbitrarily.”

The stranger gestured with a thumb behind him. “About a mile down, you'll discover I've already taken care of Diego Morales. There's a 'secret' marina, tucked away underneath the boardwalk. You're looking for dock five, and a Carver C25, registration number TX-7720-QA. You'll find what's left of Diego Morales and his thugs on the main deck. Take _one_ picture, then get out and make it quick. Because it'll probably get very messy around here very soon.”

The stranger picked up his pace, leaving Myna behind. He sped up to match, and the stranger noted, “You don't have time to be following me. Now do as I ask like a good little G-man.”

Myna stopped, even as his hands balled into fists. The possibility that the case had somehow already been taken care of was enough to stir him to action, retreating to where Audial was waiting with their car.

And where Myna finally let his camo drop, and reverted back to Gabriella Ramirez.

She never liked transforming back, but there was only so long a chameleon could keep up appearances, and that entire debacle had pushed her stamina to its limit.

Audial had seen Myna's natural state enough that it no longer even made him look side eye whenever she changed back. “So, I assume we're turning around and finding this marina?”

“Yes,” Myna huffed, her inner self loathing her voice. It was so high pitched and feminine, nothing like what she wanted to be. She hated that no matter how much she exercised and lifted weights, that all it did was make her smooth and toned and curvy. She hated that her efforts only drew attention to her “sexiness” rather than her strength.

She hated all of it.

With a practiced recognition, Audial remarked, “You're able to hold your male form longer each and every day. Hell, with enough work, you might be able to do it for the whole day.”

Myna actually had _several_ male bodies she morphed into, partially to keep in practice, and partially because there was no one form that she actually liked so completely that it beat out all the others. It was one of the reasons why she never actually went through with the numerous consultations with surgeons to permanently alter her physical characteristics.

Well... that and it was unclear just how such a physical change would react with her natural shapeshifting ability. She liked her unique ability even more than she liked looking male.

There was also how everyone around her would react. Chances are it wouldn't be well.

The car pulled to a stop, Myna having been so lost in her thoughts that she had forgotten they actually had a destination. “I think this is it,” Audial noted. “There's a path down from the boardwalk to our right, and it's about the right distance that our friend said this 'secret marina' would be.”

Myna kicked open the door, and slid her body out. “Let's get this over with then.”

“Not gonna change?” Audial teased.

“Too tired for that. Let's just go.”

Myna took as long of strides as she could manage. One mercy of her “natural” body was that she was quite tall for an average woman. At just a shade under 6 feet, it meant she didn't have to muck about with her height much when she changed, which helped her morph duration a great deal. The less a chameleon had to actively maintain meant the longer it could _be_ maintained.

As it was, Audial often had to struggle to keep up with her. That fact gave her a small amount of delight.

Upon reaching the lower level, it was obvious that Audial's instincts had been correct. Another, surprisingly well maintained, boardwalk sat barely a foot above the water level. That couldn't have been planned, and evidence that the Rio Grande was still rising far past what the Army Corps of Engineers predicted.

The collapse of the Rio had been an interesting story in itself.

The most entertaining conspiracy theory about what exactly happened was that the Army attempted to lower the river bed to discourage border jumpers. The seismic talented uniques that were recruited to do the job wound up digging a little too deep, disturbing an extinct fault line, and causing the entire damn river basin to drop about a hundred feet deeper than it was supposed to from El Paso all the way to the Gulf of Mexico.

It was a rather absurd theory if for no reason that if the United States had wanted a deterrent _that_ badly that there were countless more practical ways to make a deterrent for border crossings than alter the topography of a damn river bed. But it was the one that lingered _because_ of its seeming absurdity... and that seismographs all across the west coast and Mexico _had_ detected a series of very small bursts of activity common to large munition detonations or seismic unique activity in the hours before the collapse.

But regardless of why, the result of that massive drop was that the river effectively reversed its flow, creating a new lake in New Mexico and causing both the U.S. and Mexican governments to scramble in order to save their border towns.

Hence why El Paso became a bit of a coastal town with marinas tucked under the old freeway, some of them were so discreet that if you didn't know they were there, you'd never find them, making them perfect for black market dealers. Slip in by cover of night, unload your goods, relax for a day on the riverfront, then slip out the next night. It was one of the reasons why Morales's absence was such a red flag, because he should have been in El Paso for several hours already.

That attempt at discretion was an advantage for the agents, because it meant that no one hovered around in this marina for long, and even less kept the appearances of protection. No doubt two feds slowly looking a boat numbers would have been a cause for alarm otherwise.

“What was the number we were looking for again?” Myna asked.

Audial had a considerably better memory for those sort of details than she did. “TX-7720-QA. Would have been nice if he mentioned how many lots down, huh? Do you even know what a Carver C25 looks like?”

“The only reason I know that there is a yacht manufacturer named Carver is because I learned about it today,” Myna answered grumpily. “We could have passed _five_ such models for all the fucks I know. Would also be nice if these boats had their numbers in the same place.”

“Here!” Audial abruptly shouted, pointing directly in front of them, with the registration number they were looking for etched into the fore aft section on the hull in bright blue that stood out from the darker blue surrounding it. It was really rather _understated_ for what Myna would have expected of one of Mexico's most prominent kingpins. She had been expecting a hulking multiple deck monstrosity, not a surprisingly sleek one and a half deck boat with the half deck sitting directly on top of the cabin.

Myna clicked back into investigator mode as she stepped on board. “I suspect we'll be able to match this registration with Morales or one of his aliases, because I don't think we'll have much time to rummage a... holy shit.”

“What?” Audible asked, Myna's body blocking his view until he sidestepped around her. “What the fu....?”

The main deck was littered with piles of... something. Droplets of translucent goo was dripping from the upper deck lip and in front of the cabin door, which suggested there were more globs up there as well. Black, gelatin like piles... but ashen and grainy? Like someone had mixed oatmeal and Jello and then burnt the remains? The more she tried to describe what it was, the less it made sense in her own head.

Audible started to approach the nearest mass, reaching out with his left hand until Myna slapped it away and pulled him back. “Don't _touch it,_ you idiot! We don't even know what the hell that _is!_ ”

Her partner stepped back, duly chided, then said, “I'm guessing _this_ is what we're supposed to take a picture of, and give to the Assistant Director?”

Myna had been so lost in her head that she had completely forgotten about those instructions. “Shit!” She yelped, reaching into her bag for her camera. Damn thing was so small that it got lost in there so very easily. She hoped their stranger considered that in his directions. She had been told that cameras being mounted onto mobile phones could be a thing within the next decade, and what a blessed day that would be. Until then, she would need to go on goddamn spelunking missions just to find that black brick of plastic in a black bag.

“Have you considered _not_ keeping your camera in your purse?” Audible teased.

“ _Bag,_ ” Myna corrected sternly, even as she didn't stop looking. He knew _damn_ well she didn't have a purse, and was calling it that intentionally to annoy her. Finally, her hand brushed against the shutter button of her camera, and she eagerly closed her fingers around it, yanking it out of her bag and flourishing it insistently in front of Audible's face.

She snapped one picture of the two blobs directly in front of her, and not a moment too soon, as she heard a surprising amount of activity on the abandoned highway above. “Well, our strange friend wasn't kidding,” Myna said as her neck craned back to the sound of distinct Spanish being yelled. “Interested in a shoot-out with Mexican drug runners?”

“Not terribly,” Audible answered.

Myna tucked her camera into her jeans pocket. “Then let's hoof it before our friends up there start snooping around themselves.”

There was no subtlety in their retreat, the two running as fast as their legs could take them, only making it to the exit as the cartel goons stumbled down the opposite ramp. Their informant was right about one thing; Myna was _definitely_ going to show this to Assistant Director Michaels.

Because there was a story to be told here, and she guessed the AD would be able to tell it.

* * *

Getting that meeting with Assistant Director Kevin Michaels took a _lot_ longer than she would have thought. For starters, she had to think up a good reason why she abandoned her stakeout and lost containment on Morales... because she highly doubted her boss would believe “We believe he got turned into black slurry by a strange man that clued us in on a plot to steal genetic information from the last living psion.”

She also suspected that anyone who _did_ believe that probably didn't want that being part of an official report, and it probably wouldn't be a good idea getting their attention until she absolutely had to.

As a result, the decision Myna and Audible reached was to continue their mission through Morales's next two predicted stops. A part of her hoped that the gunrunner would show up and they'd be able to disregard everything they had seen in El Paso as someone else's problem.

She didn't expect it, though, especially when she started reading up on Michaels in advance of their eventual meeting. He had started in the CIA himself, working with “Unique Activities,” which was such a delightfully vague department name and yet delightfully telling.

Uniques in military service had been a hotly contested issue since the beginning, a history littered with treaties that forbade them from joining, declarations from international bodies limiting how they could be used... all of which were either ignored or superficially followed or subverted by any number of loopholes. A very popular way to dodge any sort of treaty or oversight was “Independent Organizations” running “privateer operations” bankrolled by “private enterprises,” like the League of Seven or the Crimson Militia. This AD Matthews character was no doubt an unofficial contact to these IOs, making sure the money kept moving and the operations kept coordinated.

Then he was transferred to the FBI as a communications liason in September on 1995 as part of the Interior Cooperation Act, passed by Congress after Killaton's attack on the UN. A special investigation put partial blame on the “alphabet agencies” not cooperating properly, different agencies all having bits and pieces of a plot that they didn't share with other agencies out of rivalry, that could have potentially stopped the attack had it been put together in time.

It all fit too nicely, which was why she was not at all surprised that Morales didn't show up in Houston or New Orleans, and they were called back to D.C. upon rumors of Morales's demise. On the return trip, she took time to fill up her camera and have it developed at a one-hour photo shop in New Orleans, hoping that the pharmacy employee figured her one photo taken on Morales's boat was just some film deformity.

She allowed herself a night's sleep before reporting back in and going through the standard operating procedure of debriefing, then the inevitable three-day leave that was customary of a long-term assignment before agents would be put back in the field. She was rather proud how nobody in the Trafficking Department was at all suspicious that she had seen anything out of the ordinary.

And it was during that leave time that she was able to make an appointment with Assistant Director Michaels. The only thing she hoped was that it didn't raise too many questions. Even back in the relative safety of D.C., she didn't want to draw attention to herself or what she saw.

Which would explain why she was fidgeting nervously in a chair just outside AD Michael's office, only with only his secretary to keep him company. There was a wide open glass wall that connected reception to the hall, and a hundred anonymous armed people walking by every few minutes. Any one of them could pull a gun and...

Put a hand on her shoulder.

Myna was honestly impressed she didn't outright scream. That Audible's face dropped into her field of vision was _not_ a comfort. “What are you doing here?” she hissed angrily before waving off the secretary's concern with a smile. Apparently, Myna had reacted very visibly to Audible's sudden appearance.

“The same thing I suspect you are,” her partner replied. “Imagine my surprise when I went to set an appointment for the two of us and found out you already had one just for yourself. I was _hurt_.”

“I was trying to keep you from getting involved. Who knows what sort of danger I'm inviting into this mess?”

But Audible was already deflecting the conversation. “You know, you _are_ allowed to wear a skirt. Slacks look so drab on you.”

Myna glared at him sternly. He was trying to tease her again. He knew _exactly_ why she preferred actual pants.

“There's talk around the bureau that you like other women. It's nigh slanderous, I tell you.”

The only reason she wasn't grabbing him by the tonsils was because after seven years as his partner, she knew he was just trying to lighten the mood.

Finally, he seemed to grasp that she wasn't amused. “Bad time, I take it?”

“Yes.”

Audible hid it quickly, but there was a flash of regret on his face. “Okay. Zipping it.”

Damn it, when he looked legitimately hurt, it was impossible to stay mad at him. A small smile betrayed her and with a sigh she elbowed him in the kidney. “Goofball.”

Audible snorted, and prompted an attempt at quiet sputtering laughter that Myna quickly joined in for. At least until a third voice stepped into the fun. “Is there something entertaining that you'd like to clue me in on?”

That Audible seemed surprised was the startling part. While his attention had no doubt been absorbed during his little laugh, his hypersensitive hearing should have gotten wind that whatever business AD Michaels was doing was wrapping up.

A person hearing the name “Kevin Michaels, Assistant Director for the FBI” would have no doubt have conjured a certain mental image. A white man with a full head of silvery hair, maybe a few wrinkles of experience, square chin with maybe a beard or mustache, and a no-nonsense demeanor.

That was _not_ what presented himself in front of Myna. AD Michaels was clearly of a very direct Native American descent, with a dark skin tone almost like leather, and a notable lack of gray hair for a man in his late 50's except what almost looked like a airbrush of silver across his sideburns and over the ears. There were no chiseled features on this man, with the only sign of any advancing age being crows feet teasing the corners of his eyes and mouth.

He was also smiling, something that made Myna instantly wary. People in directors chairs didn't smile, much less naturally.

Michaels gestured to the open door that led to his office, and said with unnerving friendliness, “Now, I don't want to keep you from your leave, so why not follow me so I can figured out what this visit is about?”

Myna locked eyes with Audible, who clearly shared her concern. “Last chance to back out,” she whispered.

His response was immediate and with conviction. “I've had your back for seven years. I'm not going anywhere.”

“Your funeral,” she said grimly, taking the lead into AD Michael's office. The Assistant Direction had been waiting just inside the door and to the right, closing it behind the agents, then offering them chairs across from his very cluttered mahogany desk. Instead of crossing to the other side and taking a seat, Michaels leaned against the edge of his desk and crossed his arms.

“So. Agent Ramirez and Agent Demers. Myna and Audial, if we're going by unique codenames.” The assistant director opened, a statement more than a question.

Myna nodded. “You've done your homework, sir.”

His eyes narrowed, though the friendly tone remained. “Not enough, it would seem, as I'm not sure what two agents from Customs and Trafficking would want with me.”

Myna took a deep breath. This was the point of no return. She opened her jacket far enough to grab the photo from her inside pocket and handed it over to the assistant director. “We were told by... a friend... to give this to you personally.”

It didn't take even a second for the friendly demeanor to vanish. AD Michaels gave the photo one look, then reached over his desk to tap on the intercom. “Brenda, I need a lockdown. No calls, no visitors, until I say so.”

The receptionist's voice crackled with affirmation, “Yes, Director.”

As the assistant director closed the blinds an both windows in his office, Audible leaned in and whispered, “Is it still too late to back out?”

Myna replied curtly, “Yep.”

“Damn it.”

Michaels returned to his previous position leaning against the desk, but instead of a casual air, his lean had the feel of a predator relaxing in front of prey. “Where did you get this?” he demanded quietly.

“From the yacht of Deigo Morales in El Paso, Texas. The... friend... I mentioned earlier said he had dealt with our current case in exchange for us delivering a message to you.”

That finally got Michaels to his desk properly, and he started rummaging through his desk cabinets until he found... paperwork that needed doing immediately.

Myna and Audible shared another nervous glance, and Myna finally asked, “Sir...?”

“Quiet,” he answered gruffly, his pen scratching forcefully on the paper in front of him. Michaels was a lefty, an observation that Myna wasn't sure why she had focused on. Perhaps out of self-preservation to keep her from asking more questions.

When he was done several minutes later, he split the papers into two stacks, then stuck them into two envelopes, licking both of them shut and stamping them repeatedly. The he opened his office door, stuck his head out, followed by the papers he had been writing with an outstretched arm.

“Brenda, deliver this first folder immediately to Assistant Director Guzman at Customs. Make sure he understands that it'll be better for him to sign off on it now rather than have me go over his head and force it through.” He ordered. “Put the second into inter-agency mail to DCI Bush. He'll take it from there. Thank you.”

With that done, he was leaning against his desk again, and ordered, “Give me every single detail of your 'friend' and precisely what he told you.”

Myna took the lead in reporting what she had seen, Audible jumping in merely to correct anything she might have mis-remembered. Once that was done, the assistant director had dropped his head into his right hand in thought.

Almost absentmindedly, he said, “You will be reporting to me for the duration of this coming assignment. You will be presented with Top Secret Tier 5 information during the course of this assignment. You are _not_ permitted under any circumstances to discuss them with _anyone_ other than myself. Do you understand?”

Myna and Audible nodded silently.

“The man you met was a unique. A very dangerous, very deadly unique, as you already have evidence of. Vladimir Kirov, also known as 'Leper.'”

“A Soviet?” Myna blinked. That might explain his odd diction, but she would have pegged it as Latin American rather than Russian.

Michaels shook his head, “One of ours, actually. His parents defected with him in 1962 when he was still a child, worried that the Soviet Union was going to force him into working for their 'mitilias.'”

“I doubt they were pleased he wound up working for one of ours, I'm guessing?” Audible wondered out loud.

Again, Michaels shook his head. “He honestly didn't. No lie, he didn't spent a single day working for one of our IOs. It was honestly... worse than that.” The assistant director ran his left hand through his hair. “There were... some uniques that we wanted on a much closer leash. Either because they were too dangerous for us to be comfortable giving them semi-autonomy, or because they were foreign born and we didn't fully trust them with semi-autonomy, or because they were just that damn good at what they did... or in Leper's case, all three. And thus, begat a program called Deep Diver.”

The two agents were content to let him keep talking, and Michaels complied. “Ostensibly, Deep Diver was a Naval Intelligence initiative, something that wouldn't raise too many eyebrows or demand too much oversight. In truth, they were a Black Ops team routinely dropped into unknown or hostile territory for any number of reasons that were deemed of national interest. Leper quickly stood out among even that elite fighting force for his ability to end conflicts quickly.”

“Related to his unique power?” Myna asked. She could sense that even the assistant director had been tiptoeing around that disclosure.

“What Leper can do isn't something that I'm not sure I can accurately describe, because it defies everything we know about biology and probably seven other sciences. There are 'assassin' type uniques, as I'm sure you're well aware... ones that create their own toxins, for example. Some seismic uniques can even make your damn heart explode given enough time. But that is the rub. It takes them _time_ for their venom or their seismic powers to have lethal consequences.”

“Leper's unique power is a contagion on his left hand, one that is so potent that it consumes organic matter in _seconds_ , turning it into that black mess that the two of you witnessed. Even _if_ a counter-agent to that existed, it kills far too quickly for a treatment to be of any use.”

Myna gulped. That explained the glove the stranger wore. “What... can do _that?_ ”

Director Michaels shrugged animatedly. “Ain't that the kicker? We have no idea. Whatever that contagion is, it degenerates to an incomprehensible mess along with whatever it consumed. The best guess we have is that it has something to do with the remains it leaves behind; the black stuff is mostly carbon, heavier metals commonly found within the the human body, and scraps of presumably the host's DNA. The fluid component looks to be partially silicon, water, and a slurry of crude proteins. Even when we tried to isolate a sample for study, it decomposed before we could even get it under a microscope. Whatever it is only can live for extended periods on Leper's body.”

Audible finally asked, “And this guy is wandering about feeding 'tips' to Federal agents... _why_ exactly?”

Michaels went silent for a beat, trying to assemble his thoughts, “Well, that's just the funny thing. No one had heard from Leper, or anyone in Deep Diver, since 1981.”

Well, that begged an important question, and Myna asked it. “How exactly does a secret Black Ops cadre of uniques so dangerous that the military wanted them directly under their command disappear for almost two decades? And why would supposedly the most dangerous of them pop back up now?”

“The answer to the first question is simple; we thought they were dead. On August 2nd, 1981, Deep Diver was sent into Argentina on reports of experiments being done on native uniques... techniques that resembled pre-intervention Nazi eugenics. Considering the barbarism Nazi scientists did during the Second World War, Central Intelligence was obviously concerned what they would do with alien technology and unique humans.”

“Argentina being a supposed haven for Nazi leaders who escaped the collapse of the Third Reich,” Myna nodded. “But nothing that was ever proven to have happened with any significant numbers, and obviously not grounds for US troops to come dropping in without having to inform every single UN charter nation of their intent.”

“So send in Deep Diver,” Audible finished.

Michaels nodded, “Yep. We didn't want to clue in the Soviets, especially if they didn't already know... and we were no doubt infinitely curious about any findings the scientists might have had.” His voice took on a faux sympathetic tone as he added, “After all, while it was truly tragic what the Nazis had done, a truly greater tragedy would be to let the sacrifice of those lost go to waste with the knowledge that had been gained.”

The team's path started in Buenos Aires, moved on to Cordoba by August 12th, and on the 14th, they reported preparing to move in on what they believed was the Nazi research base in the Andes. On the 15th, there was an explosion consistent with a nuclear detonation, exactly where Deep Diver was operating. Several investigations over the next five years didn't find any evidence of any survivors.”

“Clearly, Intelligence thought it possible Deep Diver faked their deaths,” Myna concluded.

The assistant director confirmed, “CIA was _certain_ of it, in fact. But after five years with no sign whatsoever that anyone had walked away from that explosion, we decided to abandon any further searches. Other nations were already starting to get suspicious of our continued interest in what had been for all public knowledge a one-time accident. The CIA had little reason at the end to suspect that anything other than the apparent had happened. The investigation was dropped, and all members of Deep Diver were considered deceased.”

“But to get back to your second question... _that_ is more uncertain. The things he told you about the black market for Hope Sage's genetic material isn't new. We watched _that_ black market lunge to life the moment it was revealed she survived the Psion Genocide. The specific dollar amounts _are_ new, though, as well as his contention that at least _some_ of that money is coming from inside the house, so to speak. Not surprising mind you, because we _have_ run out of the samples that we were using while she was comatose, but a development we weren't aware of.”

Myna was going to let that admission slide, but Audible wasn't. “We've been trying to do what this Leper is accusing others of?”

Michaels scoffed derisively. “Of _course_ we have. Come on, you should know _damn_ well by now we aren't _any_ better than the foreign interests we scorn. I doubt researchers were able to get _much_ , mind you, as her family had some _very_ powerful friends that weren't going to allow much chicanery, but I know CIA-backed scientists were able to get a few critical gene samples to play with.”

At any rate, I suspect there's something _else_ Leper is focused on, and I suspect you'll be clued into it once you're back out into the field. Your assignment is to play Leper's game, whatever it is. While I would have trusted him and his motives in the past... two decades is a _long_ time. People change, and not always for the better.”

“But why us?” Myna asked. “We're glorified customs agents with fancier badges.”

“Leper could have contacted me in _any_ number of ways, with any number of contacts that were actually _closer_ to me. But he chose to pop up in front of you two. It would seem to me that he did so because the two of you have the skills he's looking for, and I'm willing to play along... for now. Just be safe. If you ever feel uncomfortable with the task in front of you, don't do it, no matter what he says. Leper wants to take it up with me, well... he knows where to find me, I'm sure.”

Michaels rubbed his eyes, and ordered, “Return to your leave. If I suspect correctly, Leper will contact you at some point before you're scheduled to return to duty. My receptionist, Brenda, will give you contact information as you leave. Report to me once he makes contact. Dismissed.”

Myna grabbed Audible and almost drug him out of AD Michaels's office because he wasn't moving fast enough for her. Audible noticed this and whispered, “Geez, partner. In a hurry to start our new assignment?”

She grit her teeth, and accepted the information she was promised by the assistant director's secretary with a close lipped smile. In truth, she honestly was. While she didn't doubt that her work with Trafficking was important... arguably the world's deadliest assassin doesn't come out of hiding for something trivial. This was something that he felt could be world-changing in its scope.

This was _exciting_.

* * *

If Assistant Director Kevin Michaels had to choose a word for the tale presented to him, “Exciting” would not have been it. “Concerning” perhaps. “Worrying” would also be a good choice. “Disastrous” could probably work as well, considering Leper's tendency to leave the dissolved remnants of bodies in his wake.

In fact, “exciting” would be pretty far down the list of adjectives he'd use.

He watched the two agents leave, guilty not so much by what he disclosed (DCI Bush wouldn't give him any trouble on the security clearance granted in advance), but by what he _didn't._

In truth, he had a fairly good idea why Leper had approached those two, and had reached that conclusion fairly quickly into their meeting. Myna was easily one of the best chameleon uniques the FBI had, and probably even among _any_ federal agency. Audible was equally highly rated in his discipline. They were the most effective undercover pairing the bureau could ask for.

Leper was a peerless _infiltrator_ , able to get into damn near anywhere he pleased, but he needed to know what he was getting into. He was also without peer at not being caught, but his methods of avoiding capture frequently left as big of a mess as he cleaned up.

With Myna able to disguise herself for hours, and with considerable experience in undercover work, and Audible's talents meaning that she could do so without need of a wire, it seemed pretty clear that Leper needed people who could get in, gather intel, then get out without leaving bodies behind. At least... not initially.

But for what?

And why _now?_

There were two factors in play here that would explain Leper's actions. The first one that came to mind was the conundrum. Kevin hadn't been lying that the search for Hope Sage's genes was relatively old news. There must have been some movement there that _everyone_ following that case had missed. That was entirely possible, Kevin had supposed; so many players came and go from that black market as they either gave up or thought they had a new idea to get Sage's genetic material, that keeping track of exactly who and where the money was coming from was nigh impossible. But why would Leper give a damn about that after two decades?

The second factor came as an epiphany as he was mulling the first. When he had first met Leper, back in 1975, the contagion that was the heart of his power had been restricted to below his wrist. By the time he had disappeared six years later, it had spread halfway up his forearm. The conclusion that had been reached was that not even Leper was immune to the alien contagion, merely that something about him was slowing it down.

What did it look like after almost twenty more years?

“Is that why you came out of hiding?” Kevin muttered to himself, his eyes drifting off into space through the window to his left. “How much more time do you have left, Vlad?”

* * *

49...

50.

Leper dropped from the pull-up bar he had fashioned in the doorway between the bathroom and living space, wiping the sweat pouring down his forehead with his left forearm. Those were a _lot_ easier to do at 23 than they were at 43. He then released the tension the rod, pulling it away from the doorframe, then dropping it on top of his suitcase that was still on the other, unused bed of his double motel room. He hadn't needed it, but Myna and Audible had moved quicker than he was expecting, so he didn't have time to shop around for more suitable vacancies.

He froze when he caught sight of himself in a full length mirror mounted on the wall. If there was one thing that the contagion did beyond kill people, it really gave Leper a very good sense of how life was fleeting. The black splotches indicative of the disease was now creeping across his pectorals. At some point, he wouldn't be able to cover it up.

Provided he lived that long.

His mobile phone rang, and he resigned himself to the fact that he was going to have to answer eventually. He hadn't given them much warning that he was leaving, and certainly didn't give them a reason. He hoped it was Ngyuen calling. _He_ could at least be reasoned with.

Leper picked up the phone, the vibration along with the chime continuing far longer than any normal person would have given up. It was fascinating how communication had changed over the years. Even he hadn't realized how fast the world had moved since they had fallen off the the grid with nothing but a cranky ol' rotary dial landline as a means to reach the outside world.

The phone was still ringing, and for a brief instant, he regretting giving them that contact information. But that really wasn't fair. Those waiting back at “home” deserved to know the score. Flapping his lips tiredly, he pressed down on the green answer button, and put the receiver to his ear. “Hello.”

A woman's voice answered. “Where the hell are you and why are you there?”

Diu. This was going to go _swimmingly_.

“This isn't a secure line, Diu.”

“Like hell it isn't,” the Chinese-American unique snapped back. “It's as secure as anything in this forsaken world is going to be.”

That was probably true, if Leper was being honest. Considering they maintained their hideaway themselves, even the phone line, it was rather unlikely that it'd be tapped even _if_ someone knew where they had been in hiding. “I'm just doing what I always do; monitor for any signs that we've been discovered. This just happened to take me further out than I was expecting.”

Unlike Diu and Ngyuen, Leper had kept his ear to the ground, and that had always been his excuse. It didn't seem like that one was going to work this time.

“You've been gone for three weeks! And you call to tell us you have a new mobile number! What is going on? I demand an answer!”

There would have been a time two decades ago where Diu would have rather killed him than speak to him. He _almost_ wished for those days back. “I had to move quickly and didn't want to trouble you. I still don't.”

“I served with _you_ for seven years. It would take a great deal to trouble me.”

Leper decided to test that theory. “I was perusing the black market in Buenos Aires. There were people here in America looking for anything pertaining to Zimmer's lab and research.”

There was a very long silence on the other end, and finally, “Oh.” After another beat, she asked, “How would anyone in the United States even _know_ about that, especially after all this time?”

“ _That_ is the question I need to answer,” Leper replied. “And that's why I'm here.”

“We could have helped if you had told us.”

“ _You_ need to help take care of Manu.”

Diu scoffed. “Manu is a grown man at this point. Not that you'd know, as little as you have been around.”

“Now that's a low blow,” Leper growled.

“Did you know he displayed a unique power?”

That rose Leper's eyebrows. “When? Who did he take it from? There shouldn't be anyone with a unique power for _miles_.”

“No one, as far as we can tell,” Diu answered. “Went out to the soybean field, and Manu was tilling the topsoil with seismic powers. He's had that ability for _months,_ or so he tells us. He was afraid we'd punish him if he told us.”

“Considering how much we terrified him with tales of uniques that he had to avoid at all costs, that's understandable.” Leper thought about it, then added, “I suppose it would be possible that _some_ of the genetic data he had acquired in his past life before... well, it could have survived and wound up in his new body. He'd still have that same ability to alter his genetic code, after all, it'd be more than possible he unlocked that sequence by blind luck.”

Diu hummed thoughtfully at that theory. “Would be wonderful to consult someone on this, but the only scientist who'd be able to provide a conclusive answer is dead, and a monster I'd never want to consult even if he was alive.”

God, Leper hoped _that_ was true. “Let's just pray he doesn't show any sign of psion talent.”

“If I believed in prayer, I'd agree. I don't think I'd be able to...”

Leper agreed so that she didn't have to finish the thought. “Me neither. Listen, I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but it's for the best. I don't know how much time I have. Let me have this one last fight, and you and Nguyen and Manu and Leilan have some peace.”

Diu huffed. “If only because it'd be more trouble hunting you down in order to help.”

“I wouldn't be so eager,” Leper retorted, “I get the feeling that one day, you and Nguyen will have to drag your old bones out into the scrum again. No sense chasing it when it's gonna come to you.”

“Now you're just trying to mollify me.”

“I wish I was,” he replied regretfully. “Uniques attempted a coup of the United States just four years ago, and it's still got a _lot_ of people on edge. Russia had a similar attempt stymied a year ago. Spain tried to criminalize using unique talents in public just this month. This entire world is dry powder right now. I don't know how many times we'll be able to avoid the spark. Keep you and yourselves safe. I'll put out this one potential fire.”

“You better,” then she went silent as Leper heard mumbling in the background. Then Diu spoke up again, “Ngyuen says hello and that you better be careful.”

“Aren't I always?”

That earned him a patronizing laugh, “You wouldn't be half the menace you are if you were. Goodbye, Vladimir. This better not be our last conversation.”

“Here's hoping.”

He brought the phone away from his ear, and hit the red “hang up” button, even though there wasn't anything to “hang up” the phone on, and that Diu had already done it seconds ago. He hadn't been lying. Everything that he was doing, everything that everyone was doing, was probably only delaying the inevitable. Too many people want a bloody fight _far_ too badly to be held back forever.

But that could be a problem for Future Leper.

Presuming there _was_ a Future Leper.

He once again found himself looking at the mirror, and the damage splayed across his chest. Sometimes, he could feel his arms go numb, telling him that the contagion was more than skin deep. Who knows how long before it started eating at his heart? Five years? Five months? Five days?

He exhaled deeply, regaining his composure. He needed to maintain his aura of confidence, that presence that told anyone near him that he was an unstoppable force of inhumanity, that he was death manifest. Once he felt he was himself again, he tapped out another number on the far too small buttons on his phone, then call.

It took four rings to answer, and he didn't give her a chance to greet him. “Hello, Myna. I understand you've gotten a hold of Assistant Director Michaels. Very good. Now, here's what I need from you...”


End file.
